


nostos

by disheveledcurls



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels, Season 7 Spoilers, but joanlock comes pretty damn close, joan + happiness is the real otp, joan gets some closure, joan goes to therapy, joan has some Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29019876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disheveledcurls/pseuds/disheveledcurls
Summary: It’s like one of those nightmares that turns reality inside out like a sock. Nothing makes sense, least of all the fact that Sherlock is holding her close, trying to comfort her, not letting go. How can this be real? The only explanation she can think of is that this unprecedented gesture is his final goodbye.[Three years after Odin Reichenbach’s fall from grace, Sherlock comes home.]
Relationships: Arthur Watson & Joan Watson (Elementary), Sherlock Holmes & Arthur Watson & Joan Watson (Elementary), Sherlock Holmes & Joan Watson (Elementary)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	nostos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joan POV, postcanon AU; mostly canon compliant; spoilers for the whole show but especially for major s7 plotlines.  
>  **Trigger warning:** implied cancer diagnosis, mentions of chemotherapy

_“His lies were like the truth, and as she listened, she began to weep. (…) She wept for her own husband who was right next to her. (…) Odysseus pitied his grieving wife inside his heart, but kept his eyes quite still, without a flicker, like horn or iron, and he hid his tears with artifice. She cried a long, long time, then spoke again. ‘Now, stranger, I would like to set a test…’”_

**from _The Odyssey_ , pp224-225 (tr. Emily Wilson)**

_you came and i was crazy for you_

_and you cooled my mind that burned with longing_

**fragment 48**

**sappho, _if not, winter,_ (tr. anne carson)**

**nine hours later**

It’s morning by the time she finally gets home, moody and exhausted. A massive headache looms in the form of a steady, dull pressure behind her eyes, but the eerie silence that greets her as she steps into the brownstone is worse, somehow—instantly unsettling and unbearably sad. The only consolation, she reasons, as she takes off her coat and hangs it on its peg in the foyer, is that if she’s going to have a nervous breakdown at least there won’t be anyone around to see it happen. (Not for lack of trying: both Marcus and the Captain offered to come with her, but Joan told them she needed to be on her own for a few hours and rest. The lie rolled off her tongue easily, just like all the others.)

She isn’t completely alone, however: on Gregson’s orders, the 11th precinct has assigned her a small protective detail: two officers posted at the door and two more patrolling the block. (“In case that son of a bitch is thinking of retaliating,” the Captain said, when he thought Joan wasn’t listening.) But it’s one of those ugly winter days out there—cold and wet and dark enough to make you hate New York—, and Joan figures, if these people are going to spend the next few hours—god only knows how many—guarding her house and putting their lives on the line for her, they can at least come inside where it’s warm and have a cup of coffee while they’re at it.

With that in mind, Joan adds “Coffee for four” to her mental to-do list, one which unfortunately does not include hiding in her room to wallow in anguish and self-recrimination, or asking herself questions like _What have we done?_ Today, only pragmatism serves. So Joan goes into the kitchen, puts the kettle on and quickly takes some paracetamol for her headache. While the water boils, she goes down to her basement office, fishes one of the burner phones from their stash and sends a text that looks like a string of nonsense but actually means, _It’s done._ Then she paces around the room clutching the phone like a lifeline and feeling as pathetic as a teenager waiting for a call back from her crush. Less than thirty seconds later, the phone buzzes with a reply. Joan’s heartbeat accelerates as she reviews another apparently nonsensical message, which, once decrypted, reads: _Got out ok. More 2 come._

Joan breathes a sigh of immense relief, shoves the phone into her pocket and quickly jogs back up the stairs, into the house and over to the kitchen. She’s brewing her tea and rummaging through the cupboards for disposable cups she can give Gregson’s people when something catches her eye—a solitary mug which lies forsaken on the kitchen table. It’s an old one, navy blue with the words _Coffee Is My Higher Power_ printed across its circumference in white Helvetica, originally a gift from Alfredo on one of Sherlock’s earlier sobriety anniversaries. Coffee was never among Sherlock’s passions, but his genuine, enduring friendship with his former sponsor was reason enough to make that mug one of his favorites. Now, it is simply one more thing he has left behind.

Joan approaches slowly, mesmerized and irrationally hesitant at the same time. When she comes to stand before the table, she peers into the mug, which is still lined with the dregs of Sherlock’s last coffee. She brushes the mug with her fingertips, careful and quick, like you’d touch something you suspect is scalding hot—but it isn’t, obviously, it’s been cold for hours. With shaky hands, she picks it up, her fingers folding over the ghost of her best friend’s touch, and then she brings the mug up to her mouth and drains the few drops of coffee that haven’t yet solidified on the bottom. It’s disgustingly icy, of course, but that is not why her eyes well up with unwelcome tears, nor why she has to force herself to let go of the mug and set it back down on the table. The rational part of her sighs in exasperation and says, _That’s enough of that nonsense. Go where you’re needed_. Instead, Joan stares at the mug for an inordinate amount of time and then, in a white-hot flash of furious regret, sweeps it off the table in a single, fluid motion.

The mug hits the floor and shatters, quite neatly, into three large pieces. Numbly, Joan turns away from the wreckage, walks back to the counter and turns the coffee maker on, because she hasn’t forgotten her duty. While it brews, she crouches to pick up the fragments, making sure no shards are left on the floor. And for a while, rationality prevails: Joan wraps each piece of broken porcelain in two layers of old newspaper and puts it in the trash can. She invites the police officers in, hands each of them a cup of steaming black coffee and thanks them for their hard work. She drinks her tea. She plays her part. She waits for news. She resolutely does not think about the giant question mark that is her future, does not talk to the bees, does not wander around the house seeking her partner’s presence in other inanimate objects, such as the clothes he left behind. Above all, she does not cry. Her partner is alive somewhere, she reminds herself over and over, like a stubborn, private mantra. Reichenbach’s going to prison. This is only temporary. There is nothing to cry about.

Hours later, on the first sleepless night of many, Joan goes back to the kitchen, rescues the porcelain fragments out of the trash, washes them obsessively in boiling-hot water four times and pieces the mug back together with superglue. She keeps it in her basement office, on her desk, from that day onwards, ostensibly in remembrance of what she lost, and secretly as a symbol of her penance. She will never allow herself to forget the feeling that made her break it.

***

**three years later**

It’s like one of those nightmares that turns reality inside out like a sock. Nothing makes sense, least of all the fact that Sherlock is holding her close, trying to comfort her, not letting go. How can this be real? The only explanation she can think of is that this unprecedented gesture is his final goodbye, and that when he says he’ll stay he only means tonight, or for a few days, or until she’s settled into her treatment. And at the thought of losing him again something in her cannot take it anymore and rebels: something like a dog whining for food or for attention. Fighting a nearly overpowering urge to melt into the hug completely, Joan pulls back to say _Enough is enough_ , and put an end to this absurd charade. But the way Sherlock’s gaze lingers on her face gives her pause—and for a wild instant, she is almost certain he will have the audacity to kiss her. He doesn’t. A wave of disappointment washes over her, crushing, but familiar enough to be bearable.

Joan steps out of the circle of Sherlock’s arms, squares her shoulders and asks, “Weren’t you in the middle of something in Reykjavik?”

He blinks, thrown off. “I was,” he admits, “but I have trustworthy contacts in the Icelandic police. I’ll leave my investigation in their capable hands.”

“What about McNally?”

“I’ve already turned him down,” Sherlock replies, frowning, obviously suspecting something is amiss. “I made the call on the way here.”

Joan nods to acknowledge his answer and says nothing else. Instead, she turns and stoops to pick up all the takeaway menus she’d left lying on the sofa. Sherlock sounds uncertain as he breaks the terse silence to ask, “Shall we see about dinner, then?”

“Actually, I’ve lost my appetite,” Joan says, keeping her voice even and her face blank as she turns to offer him the pile of brochures. “But you go ahead and eat. I’m gonna go change.” Sherlock merely stares at her, not taking the papers from her hands. “I’ll just leave these here,” she says, setting them on the mantel above the fireplace, and without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and walks out of the room. She knows perfectly well she’s being petty and rude and for once, she’s not apologizing for it. Tonight, she isn’t Grown Up Joan, who always steps up to the plate to be the bigger person, or Professional Sidekick Joan, ready to put other people’s needs before her own at all times. Tonight, she needs to be a jerk.

She only makes it as far as the hallway before Sherlock catches up with her. Joan hears him call out her name, but she doesn’t stop. She’s almost reached the stairs when she feels his hand connect with her elbow and nearly jumps out of her skin. Again the wild thought that he may kiss her crosses her mind and her stomach drops—but as soon as she spins around to face him, he lets go and retreats. “What,” she says, not even attempting to mask her annoyance.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, concern and impatience mingling in his restless gaze. Clearly, the undercurrent of bad temper in her actions hasn’t gone unnoticed.

She arches a sardonic eyebrow. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“Well, yes. But I didn’t mean—” He trails off inarticulately, grimaces, shakes his head, starts over: “Of course, you’re entitled to be upset about your diagnosis.” After averting his gaze so it lands more or less at her feet, he goes on: “But I just want to make sure you know I’m here. At your disposal. And if there’s anything I can do, you need only ask.”

Joan clicks her tongue and folds her arms across her chest. A fleeting memory of sitting alone at Shinwell’s memorial service comes to mind, but she’s still in control, and does not to bring it up. “Thanks. I’m good,” she says, in a cold, adolescent sort of way. She turns to leave, but once again her partner’s voice stops her in her tracks:

“Are you angry with me?”

Joan scoffs in disbelief. If he really needs to ask that, he’s learned nothing from everything they went through together—or else he forgot it all when he became a ghost. “Of course I’m angry with you,” she retorts, whirling around to face him. She doesn’t raise her voice or lose her cool; she doesn’t need to. “What did you expect? While you were out there having your little adventures, I’m the one that was left alone here. I’m the one that had to plant evidence, and lie to everyone, and give false testimony under oath.” There is a moment of silent shock while Sherlock processes her outburst, and Joan seizes his inaction to elaborate: “And now you have the _nerve_ to stand there without even apologizing for any of it and act like you’re gonna see me through this when we both know you don’t even want to _be_ here.”

“What on _earth_ ,” he finally reacts, visibly agitated, “makes you think that I—”

“You said yourself you were happy with your new life” she reminds him, determined not to give him an inch. “You were gonna take McNally’s offer.”

“That was before Gregson told me—”

“Exactly,” she cuts in, with a kind of triumphant bitterness. “Just admit it. You’re only here because you feel sorry for me.”

Sherlock shakes his head, at a loss, his eyes bright with unshed tears for the second time tonight. “You misunderstand me completely.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock, seriously,” she insists, ignoring him and pushing past the knot in her throat to press her point: “You heart’s in the right place. But I don’t want anyone’s pity, least of all yours.” On the last word, her voice nearly fails her, but she’s made it too far to turn back now.

“Is that why you think I’m staying?” he asks hoarsely, his face contorting into a tormented grimace that would break Joan’s heart if it wasn’t already. “Watson, years ago I made you a promise—”

“Because you felt you had to keep me safe. I know,” she interrupts, waving it off impatiently. “This isn’t like that.”

“Will you let me _speak_ ,” he pleads, almost vibrating with frustration. 

Joan sets her jaw in a stubborn line and nods. 

“That promise wasn’t made out of pity,” Sherlock says, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Nor do I pity you now.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shifts his weight from one foot to the other and adds, “I’m here because you’re my best friend, and this is where I belong.”

Joan gapes at him, so appalled that for a second she even forgets to breathe. She’s never known anyone with such a spectacular knack for saying wonderful things at the worst possible time, or for the wrong reasons entirely. Then, fury rears its ugly head and heartbreak follows, like twin dogs chasing each other’s tails. Holding both feelings at bay with every ounce of her willpower, Joan coolly says, “You have a funny way of showing it.”

“Reichenbach had to be stopped,” Sherlock argues miserably. “I had to do something.”

“Did you _have_ to disappear on me, too?” she shoots back, merciless. “Did you have to keep me in the dark and worried sick for _two fucking years_?”

“I’ve already explained why I couldn’t contact you.”

“Oh, don’t even _start_ with that bullshit excuse again.”

“It wasn’t an excuse. I was trying to protect you. And your son.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says callously, around a shuddering breath. “Just tell me how long it’ll be this time.”

Again he blinks, mystified. “I beg your pardon?”

“How _long_ , Sherlock? Eight months? Two years? How long till you find another excuse to leave me again?” she demands, hating every frantic, poisonous word that comes out of her mouth, yet meaning all of them. “Just tell me now so I can prepare myself. Maybe that way it’ll hurt less.”

Sherlock winces as if she had slapped him and takes several moments to recover. “It’s astonishing how poorly you think of me,” he remarks, with a forced nonchalance Joan finds absolutely hateful. “Why do you imagine I’m so anxious to leave? Enlighten me.”

“Maybe there’s someone or something waiting for you back in Norway or Florence or wherever it is you’re hiding these days,” she ventures. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t come back.” Just thinking about it hurts like a broken bone, but to carry on not knowing would be worse—ignorance, for Joan, isn’t blissful, but rife with sickening possibilities. (At times, over the years, she’s felt she knows him better than she knows herself. At times, he seems to slip from her grasp and revert back to the mysterious, haunted man she met so many years ago, as if every so often they were forced to retrace their steps and replay their old tug-of-war from the beginning: _I want you to tell me about London. I want you to tell me about what happened to you_. _If I'm gonna stay with you, I need to know everything.._.)

“That is _preposterous_ ,” Sherlock rebukes her, so indignant he can hardly stand still. “You can’t possibly imagine that my time away was some sort of extended sabbatical. It was an exile,” he asserts, grim-faced and tense, thrusting his left hand forward in a jittery, emphatic motion, as if pushing something away. “For three years, I had nothing. I _was_ nothing.”

Joan abruptly turns away, pressing a hand over her mouth as the tears roll down her cheeks and her chin trembles. Right there and then, she almost drops the subject. After all this time, she still can’t bear to see him in pain, especially if it’s her fault. Plus, they’ve made it this far settling for grandiose declarations over honest dialogue, comforting assumptions over certainties, evasives over straightforward answers. Why not go on like this? Joan is so tempted to withdraw from the confrontation that she actually starts to walk away. She’s only taken a couple of steps up the stairs when Sherlock speaks again:

“I thought you’d understand.”

He makes it sound like an afterthought, but Joan can tell it’s actually a reproach. Her temper flares again and she half-turns to glare at him over her shoulder. “Understand what,” she echoes, tight-lipped.

“That I stayed away because I had to,” he says, swaying a little on his feet, like a drunk. “Watson, you, you _know_ me. How can you stand there and accuse me of deliberate cruelty?”

The more outraged he seems, the more convinced Joan becomes that he’s keeping something from her, which reminds her, dreadfully, of a guilty man they met once, a long time ago. _You’re just some woman with a crazy story_. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” she says. Meaning: _I don’t need to_.

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock barrels on, completely missing her point. “You just implied I deliberately abandoned you. As if I’d do such a thing! To _you_ , of all people!” he huffs out, incredulous. “Perhaps you forget that I know what it’s like to be left behind!”

“Not by me,” she points out, with the perverse satisfaction of knowing she’s found an argument that he can’t refute, even if the truth of it hurts them both. And in a fit of vengeful resentment, she twists the knife: “But hey, who knows. Maybe the chemo will fail and you'll find out.” It’s slow and deliberate, and it shakes the room like an earthquake.

Sherlock physically staggers back, devastated, and Joan finds herself lightheaded and breathless and clenching her fists. (All those mindfulness lessons she took, at her therapist’s suggestion, gone to waste. All it takes is a few moments in Sherlock’s presence and her peace of mind comes crumbling down like a house of cards) Before either of them can say or do anything else, Joan hears her son’s voice coming from the floor above, faint but distinct against their fraught silence, and turning from Sherlock without another word she ascends to find out what’s going on. When she gets to Arthur’s room, she finds him walking around, fast asleep, wearing his _gi_ jacket backwards over his pajamas, dragging seemingly random objects from one end of the room to the other and mumbling to himself, or else to someone who’s only present in his dreamscape: _Manhwareul boseyo._ _Appaneun chil sie doraosinda. Choeumeneun jageun pal daeumeneun keun pal_ … With a tired sigh, Joan walks in, scoops him up and sits him gently on his bed. In hopes of waking him up, she shakes his shoulder lightly and asks, “Arthur, honey, what are you doing?”

Her son keeps staring vacantly at something only he can see and says, “Naneun appaga sangjareul omkkineun goseul domneunda”, which isn’t very helpful, as she doesn’t speak Korean. So she takes off his _gi_ , leaves him there to his monologue and starts to straighten out the mess he’s made of the room. At least he’s not one of those sleepwalkers who mistake the closet for the bathroom, she thinks, trying to look on the bright side, as she crouches to sort through the nonsensical piles Arthur built in his sleep. For a few seconds, she loses herself in the mindless, mechanical motions of tidying up, until the room falls silent. She turns, expecting to see her son lying on his bed, fully asleep, but he’s disappeared.

With a sinking feeling, Joan drops the assortment of Legos and coloring books she was holding, springs to her feet and rushes out into the hallway, calling her son’s name, just in time to see him reach the top of the stairs. Gasping, she tumbles forward as fast as her legs will take her, hands reaching out uselessly—and for an endless, terrifying instant she thinks he’s about to fall to his death—but then Sherlock emerges from the stairwell and lifts Arthur up and away from the brink so seamlessly that he doesn’t even wake up. Joan nearly crashes into Sherlock as she runs to meet him halfway, breathing heavily. Without a word, she takes Arthur from Sherlock’s arms and holds him in a crushing embrace, as her heart hammers madly in her ears, against her ribs, and in the spaces between her fingers, in an ecstasy of terror and relief. “God, I’m such an idiot,” she murmurs, hoarsely, when she catches her breath, which takes several moments. “I turned my back for two seconds and he slipped out. If you hadn’t been there—”

“It’s alright, Watson,” Sherlock says gently. “He’s safe.”

Joan doesn’t understand why he’s standing so close, with his arms slightly outstretched as if to steady her—until she realizes she’s shaking from head to toe. Quelling the reflex to say _I’m fine_ and pull back, because actually, she’s not, and her legs feel pretty weak, Joan says, “I didn’t even know you were up here. How—” 

“I followed you to see if your son was alright,” he explains. “He came right at me as I reached the top of the stairs, so I just caught him. That’s all.”

“God, thank you,” Joan says, as forthcoming with her gratitude as she was with her anger a few minutes ago. Shifting Arthur’s weight to her hip so she can hold him with one arm, she reaches out with her free hand, braces herself on Sherlock’s bicep, stands on her tiptoes and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Thank you so much.”

Sherlock goes very still and and his breath catches—bashful, maybe, or more probably dismayed—, so Joan rolls her eyes, pulls back and says, “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to parent-trap you.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he replies, frowning.

His utter confusion, coupled with the absurdity of the whole situation, makes Joan burst into laughter, and that’s the exact moment her son chooses to wake up. Looking extremely disoriented—because of course, he has no clue why he’s in her arms in the middle of the hallway instead of in his bed, or why Sherlock is with them—, he asks, “Mommy, what happened?”

 _You scared the crap out of me, that’s what happened_ , she thinks. “You were sleepwalking again,” she tells him, making a considerable effort to conceal the fact that she nearly had a heart attack about it.

“I was?”

“Yes, you were,” she says, as she gently lets him down. “And you know what, I don’t want you wandering off again, so get your things and go sleep in my room, please.”

“Okay, Mommy, I got it,” Arthur replies, with an air of serene confidence that Joan finds both endearing and a little bit hilarious, as he cheerfully goes to do as he was told.

Sherlock thoughtfully watches him go. “Does he do this a lot?”

“More or less once a month,” Joan says. “Nothing’s wrong with him physically. We’ve seen _a lot_ of doctors and they all tell me he’ll grow out of it. But when it comes to what to do in the meantime, they’re not so helpful.”

“Perhaps you could sew tiny bells to the cuffs of his pajama bottoms,” Sherlock suggests playfully.

“Oh, so you want me to treat my child like a housecat,” Joan retorts, amused despite herself. “Sure, that’s not going to mess with his self-perception at all.”

“Well, I never said it was a perfect solution.” 

“Mommy, I’m ready,” Arthur declares, as he reappears, carrying his dinosaur-patterned blanket—which used to belong to Joan’s eldest nephew, Jordan—, his favorite teddy bear and three other stuffed animals. “I’m going now.”

Joan and her son have had this same dialogue, almost verbatim, so many times by now that her life occasionally feels like a _Groundhog Day_ spinoff. “Alright, well done,” she says, with an approving smile that’s no less genuine for being customary. “Goodnight, sweetie.”

“Goodnight, Mommy.” To her surprise, Arthur also addresses Sherlock and waves at him. “Goodnight, Mommy’s friend.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches with the hint of a smile, and he belatedly waves back as Arthur disappears into Joan’s bedroom. And then Joan and Sherlock are back where they began—alone together and face to face with a metric ton of complicated feelings and unfinished conversations. The night is young, Joan’s anger still largely intact, and they could go on fighting for hours, pushing each other’s buttons, dancing around the obvious, poking at old wounds until they bleed anew, a prospect Joan finds equal parts exhausting and depressing. Yet what is the alternative? To retreat into the sour, familiar comfort of her own solitude with some plausible excuse and let pride and fear do the rest? To postpone, indefinitely, the moment of reckoning, even as her time may be running out? To say, or allow Sherlock to say, something so unforgivable that they can both feel justified in ending their partnership for good?

“I’m going to sit with Arthur for a while, make sure he falls back asleep,” Joan announces, gesturing vaguely in the direction of her bedroom, mostly just to punctuate the awkward silence. The truth is, she has no idea where to go from here.

“Of course,” Sherlock says. Then, with his eyes downcast and his hands laced behind his back, he softly asks, “Should I go?”

The question itself moves her, as does the air of melancholy restraint with which it was voiced, triggering a reaction that has nothing to do with petty revenge, or a cowardly wish to save face, or with her old, slightly codependent tendency to let him off the hook when he makes a mistake. For the first time since Sherlock came back, Joan has to wonder whether he, too, is grappling with visceral, unclassifiable feelings that won’t sit still and bracing himself for disappointment at every turn. And if the answer is yes, how can she not show him the same kindness that she herself craves? 

Summoning what’s left of her patience, Joan looks up at her best friend and plainly says, “Do you want to?”

Sherlock shakes his head several times but says nothing, either out of arguments or too shy to voice them.

“Then don’t,” Joan concludes, with a little shrug, having decided that a momentary truce is neither a weakness nor a betrayal of her righteous anger. She will get to the bottom of why he didn’t come back, she vows: she will get the answers she needs. But it doesn’t have to happen tonight. Rome wasn’t built—or rebuilt, in their case—in a day, right?

“I thought you were still cross with me.”

Stifling a fond smile prompted by his Briticism, Joan says, “I am. But that doesn’t mean you can’t come home.”

Sherlock stares at her, taken aback. Suddenly, inexplicably, he bridges the gap between them and bends to kiss her hands with chaste, lingering lips. Longing slices through Joan’s body, ruthless and unstoppable, like a scalpel plotting a surgical incision.

“Watson, I’m in your debt, as always,” Sherlock says, as he stands up straight, almost smiling, holding her hands in both of his. “Thank you.”

Joan looks away, ashamed of the blush that creeps up her cheeks and the way her heartbeat pounds against the hollow of her throat, like something in chains desperate to break free. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re mistaken,” Sherlock counters, with a wistful little grin, “but only because you’re too modest to see your own extraordinary kindness.” Then he leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead, a display of affection so unusual and overwhelming that Joan can’t help but flinch and pull away. 

Sherlock backtracks at once, mirroring her. “I’m so sorry,” he stammers, looking crestfallen and utterly mortified. “I overstepped.”

 _Always apologizing for the wrong things_. “It’s not a problem,” she responds, shaking her head, although she’s so flustered that she can’t quite make herself look at him. “You just—you just surprised me, that’s all.”

“No, I should have never assumed…” He falls silent mid-sentence, shakes his head and takes several steps away from her, towards the stairs, determined to remove himself from her vicinity entirely: “In any case, you were going to spend some time with your son. I’ll leave you to it.” 

Joan calls her partner’s name unthinkingly, taking a helpless step forward as if his movement pulled her along on some invisible string. Sherlock stops in his tracks and half-turns to look at her. “Wait. There’s something—” she begins, cutting herself off almost immediately because her brain catches up to what she’s doing and panic overwhelms her. _Don’t do this to yourself, Joan_ , warns a cynical, judgmental voice in her head _. Never ask for anything. Haven’t you learned your lesson? If you jump, no one’s gonna catch you_. But how many times has she sat in her therapist’s office over the last three years, clutching a handful of used tissues and raking herself over the coals for all the chances she didn’t take? How many times has she wished for a chance to do things differently? And is she going to spend the rest of her life—however long that is, now—running from the things she wants the most? Struggling to get a hold of herself, Joan takes a deep breath and starts over: “You said before to ask you if I needed anything.”

“Yes.” His mood shifts to alert and his gaze flickers as he looks her over. “What is it?”

 _I need to be held by someone who loves me,_ she thinks. _I want it to be you._ Joan isn’t brave enough to say that—and besides, she’s pretty sure he would refuse—, so she settles for, “Will you lie down with me until I fall asleep?” The moment it leaves her mouth she feels pathetic and selfish and small, but she doesn’t take any of it back.

Sherlock gapes at her, looking like he can’t quite believe his ears, and to be honest, she can’t blame him. After a moment, he recovers, fixes his gaze on the floor, clears his throat and says, “Yes, of course. Should I wait, or…?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna change first,” she says, going red in the face again and wishing the earth would swallow her. _Oh my fucking god, Joan, get a grip!_ “And, you know, brush my teeth and everything.” Maybe there is no normal way to do this, but she’s pretty sure she isn’t usually this awkward. “Also, some of your old stuff’s still in your room, so, uh, feel free to find yourself a change of clothes,” she adds, hoping he’ll take her pragmatism as proof that her intentions are perfectly innocent and they can still maintain a semblance of their old boundaries. “And, yeah, come up when you’re ready?”

“I will,” he says, still not looking at her, and Joan doesn’t stop to question it: she turns and makes a beeline for her bedroom before she can embarrass herself any further.

***

Ten minutes later, give or take, Joan is sitting on the edge of her bed, rubbing moisturizer on her hands and watching her son sleep when she hears Sherlock’s footsteps coming up the stairs. A moment later he knocks very gently on her door, twice, adding another layer of unreality to the whole situation, because since when does he knock? “Come in,” she calls out quietly.

Sherlock opens the door and stands on the threshold with his hands fidgeting at his sides. Joan throws him a questioning look— _Cold feet, already?_ —and says again, “Come in.” This time he does, shutting the door behind him and taking a couple of steps forward, hesitant and self-conscious in the old, slightly ratty clothes he changed into, a pair of non-descript dark grey sweatpants and a faded red T-shirt that reads _Keep Calm and Vote Labour_ in white capital letters.

“Nice shirt,” she remarks, arching a curious eyebrow. She doesn’t remember it, but she hasn’t laid eyes on any of his clothes in years, and besides there were always piles of T-shirts he never wore, preferring instead to pick out five or six models and cycle through them until they basically disintegrated. Hoping to distract him from his shy, apprehensive mood she asks, “Where’d you get it?”

“It was a gift from Labour campaigners,” Sherlock explains, bouncing twice where he stands. Then, as he elaborates, he starts to pace the breadth of the room: “If you’ll recall, I made a substantial donation to the party at the time of the 2017 general election. They sent this shirt as a token of their gratitude, along with a handwritten note from Jeremy Corbyn, which was of course fraudulent.” As he reaches the windows for the second time he pivots on his heel, jerks his chin in her general direction and asks, “Beeswax?”, changing the subject so abruptly that Joan almost laughs.

“You know what they say about old habits,” she replies, as she returns the moisturizer to the first drawer on her nightstand. Then, feeling slightly nervous, she grabs Arthur’s stuffed animals and sets them on the floor, along with a couple of books and case files which lie dejected right behind her, half-tucked under her pillow. Her mattress isn’t really meant to hold three people, even if one of them is a child, so they’ll need all the space they can get. Meanwhile, Arthur sleeps on, in the middle of the bed, snug under the blankets and cradling his favorite teddy bear, the ridiculously fluffy and imaginatively named Coconut. “Okay,” Joan tells her partner, as she switches off her bedside lamp and slips under the covers. “We’re ready.” 

Sherlock hesitates for a few seconds before joining them, but at last she feels the mattress dip with his weight as he takes his place on Arthur’s left side.

“You okay there?” she whispers. When her eyes get used to the blue darkness, she can more or less make out his profile, the soft downward slope of his chest. He’s lying on his back, facing the ceiling, with the sheets pulled up almost to his neck. 

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

But the lines of his body are taut with discomfort, and it makes her anxious, which entirely defeats the point of his presence, so Joan scoots back as far as she can go without falling off the bed and loops an arm around her son’s abdomen, drawing his warm, small body closer to hers so as to make more room for Sherlock’s. “There,” she says, in a rather loud, insistent whisper, “is that better?”

“Watson, will you stop fussing?” Sherlock whispers back dryly. “You’ll wake your son.”

“Well, then, relax already,” she argues, fully aware that she sounds insane. “You look like a gargoyle or something.”

 _Good job, Joan_ , she berates herself, in the ensuing silence. _If he bails now, it's on you_. Then Sherlock laughs, subdued and breathy and close as he rolls over onto his side and faces her, their bodies bracketing Arthur’s. “You know, Watson, you say the nicest things sometimes.”

“That’s what friends are for,” she deadpans. “Besides, I was right. Aren’t you more comfortable now?”

Sherlock heaves a breath, fatigued or exasperated or both, and says, “I can’t complain.”

“Well, good. Me neither,” she says, her tone switching from flippant to sincere halfway through. Then, feeling greedy and bold, she lays her left hand on the mattress, right in the middle of the narrow buffer zone between Arthur’s body and Sherlock’s, and waits. For a long moment, Sherlock appears to consider her silent invitation, until finally he reaches out and covers her hand with one of his own. Though his face is a blur in the dark, she thinks—she hopes—he’s smiling. Joan closes her eyes and falls asleep like that, grateful, hoping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1)** Chapter title taken from the Taylor Swift song of the same name.  
>  **2) Timeline geekery:** The first section of this chapter is set a few hours after the events of 7.12; the rest of it picks up immediately where 7.13 left off (minus the “One year later” time jump). I have chosen to say that the first section takes place in the winter (of whatever year that’s supposed to be; the show doesn’t tell us) simply because the clothes worn by the characters throughout suggest really cold weather.  
>  **3) Brownstone floorplan geekery:** I’m assuming Joan doesn’t make her kid sleep on a different floor of the house, so even though we’ve never been shown what’s in the “middle” room of the first floor (that’s the second floor for you American readers), between Joan’s bedroom and the bathroom, I’m guessing that is, or can be made into, another bedroom, i.e. Arthur’s.  
>  **4)** Given that we basically don’t know anything about Arthur Watson other than the fact that Joan adopted him two years before the events of 7.13, I have tried to flesh out his characterization a little bit, an effort somewhat hampered by the fact that I can’t be sure about his (canonical) age. (7.13 is curiously devoid of timestamps other than the unhelpful “3 years later” and “1 year later” that bookend the episode’s events. Sure, Sherlock comes back 3 years after faking his death—but when, exactly, was that? It’s hard to tell, especially because the show’s timeline was always messy.) Anyways, based on Arthur’s behavior during 7.13 and the fact that he’s already going to school I’ve assumed he’s 6-7 years old, but I may be wrong.  
>  **5) Linguistic geekery (aka my IRL area of expertise):** Here’s Arthur’s Korean-language dialogue, in order of appearance:
> 
> 만화를 보세요.  
>  _Manhwareul boseyo.  
> _ Watch your cartoons.
> 
> 아빠는 7시에 돌아오신다.  
>  _Appaneun chil sie doraosinda.  
> _ Daddy's coming back at 7.
> 
> 처음에는 작은 팔, 다음에는 큰 팔.  
>  _Choeumeneun jageun pal daeumeneun keun pal.  
> _ First little arm, then big arm.
> 
> 나는 아빠가 상자를 옮기는 것을 돕는다.  
>  _Naneun appaga sangjareul omkkineun goseul domneunda.  
> _ I'm helping Daddy move boxes.
> 
> I apologize if any of this is wrong btw—I asked a friend who’s learning Korean to help me, but I wasn’t able to consult a native speaker. And if you’re wondering why he speaks Korean, it will be explained in a future chapter. :)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

>  **1) About the fic title:** _Nostos_ is the Greek word for “homecoming”, and the related term _Nostoi_ refers to the legends told about the homebound journeys of the heroes of the Trojan War. (Incidentally, the word _nostalgia_ is also derived from _nostos_ , and thus originally means “the pain of missing home”.) This is just one of the many fascinating things I learned while reading Emily Wilson’s excellent English translation of _The Odyssey_ , which I can’t recommend enough and which partly motivated me to write this fic in the first place.  
>  **2)** Unbeta’d. Any mistakes, typos, inaccuracies or inconsistencies are my own.


End file.
